Fourth Time’s a Charm. [Sort of.]

This is perhaps the hundredth time I’ve sat down to write since my last post, O’ Christmas Tree. Struck with a case of writer’s block, I admit it. In my defense, I did type out one long, detailed entry. Three times.

The first time, I saved it and when I went back to work on the piece — poof — it was gone.

The second time, it wouldn’t save. The SAVE button was push-less.

Click click click click. Nothing.

I gave up and came back to it later and the screen was blank. Awesome.

The third time, I wrote a few paragraphs but I had totally lost my mojo. I realized the Universe was sending me a message.

THAT POST WAS HIDEOUS.

Little harsh.

I mean, it wasn’t all that interesting unless you like the story of a woman losing her car keys in 8 degree weather (Real Feel was Minus A Lot), nary a hat or mitten in reach. A story where the kids think that losing the car and house keys is akin to losing access to one’s home and toys and pets. Forever. A story where AAA comes to the rescue in the form of a young buck– you’re old enough to be his mother — wearing a pair of Carhartts, a t-shirt and ski goggles, only to break open said car to the tune of a BLARING PANIC ALARMED CAR HORN that won’t stop and temporarily deafens you as you search for those same keys all throughout the car.

But, nope. No keys. Just a car having an ongoing panic attack. In public. For a really, really long time.

It wasn’t all that interesting when you reach out to some friends with a text on a cell phone that has 10% battery remaining. Yukon winds squalling — frost nip brewing –and the alarm, still so earsplitting. Friend comes to the rescue and gives you her car so you dash off to rescue your children, stranded at piano lessons. There in the parking lot, you happen to encounter potentially the most handsome man to have ever walked the streets of life coming out of the building. You lock eyes for what feels like a full minute, but the car. Damn it. Still blaring a couple miles away.

Sorry, Mister. Love’s gotta wait.

Once inside the music studio, your daughter greets you with a freshly paid for Rice Krispy treat. (She carries money? She’s 8.) You’ve been skipping the carbs lately, they make you too tired, but right now you are so AMPED that thisXXL square of childhood is so happening. You set it aside as you rummage through the girls’ belongings, believing that the car keys must.be.here.somewhere.

And then. Of course. They ARE somewhere.

Like, in the toe of a size 3 girl’s winter boot. My daughter’s boot.

The boot that I was holding when I first combed the parking lot for my keys.

A few hours ago.

Sigh.

No, the post really wasn’t all that interesting. I mean, it was just a year or two shaved off your life. The heightened blood pressure. The heart rate, slowly coming down from its AC/DC Highway to Hell. It wasn’t that interesting when you hopped back in the friend’s car, massive cellophane wrapped Rice Krispy goodness held between your teeth as you began to tear out of the parking lot, thinking on motherhood and how it can be so deeply humbling. Both hands are on the steering wheel, hair wind-whipped like a wintry tumbleweed, ready to save the eardrums of citizens across the land, when you just happened to spot that handsome devil again. This time you get a better look — he’s walking towards you, WOAH, HE IS CUTE — and your jaw drops, slightly. Well, it would if there weren’t a giant confection being held in your mouth and you realize it’s likely — that, yes, it’s definitely possible — that he’s not feeling the vibe. With the crazy eyed sweet tooth behind the wheel. That maybe it’s simply because I am blocking his car with mine.